


First Constantly

by pukajen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3280130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukajen/pseuds/pukajen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't the first time that Mycroft had worried that Sherlock would do some sort of irreversible damage to himself. It wasn't even close to the hundredth. His younger brother had an incredible sense of curiosity equally matched by an incredible lack of self-preservation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Constantly

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my extraordinary beta soundingsea and nichellen for such a quick turnaround on the beta and BritPick.
> 
> For the 'Let's Write Sherlock' Challenge 18.

It wasn't the first time that Mycroft had worried that Sherlock would do some sort of irreversible damage to himself. It wasn't even close to the hundredth. His younger brother had an incredible sense of curiosity equally matched by an incredible lack of self-preservation. 

Also, though Mycroft loathed to admit it, Sherlock was a bit dim. 

He took after their father a bit more than their mother. Though Sherlock was still young, so maybe his intellect would develop over time.

If he had time.

These stream-of-consciousness thoughts were just fear freezing him in place. Seeing Sherlock lying so still, so very pale – Sherlock was an extremely pale child no matter how long he spent outside, and again with thoughts that were irrelevant at the moment – made something inside Mycroft's chest clutch most unpleasantly.

It was odd; Sherlock had been alive not even five years, yet Mycroft knew without a doubt that he would do anything to protect his younger brother.

The other one was a tedious self-important berk who deserved what he got. Mycroft wasn't even sure if he and Sherlock shared any common genes with that prat.

Sherlock, despite his never-ending questions and reckless pursuit of nearly everything that peaked his curiosity, was interesting and funny and, occasionally, very insightful person, for all that he was only four years, ten months, and thirteen days. Still in the nursery.

A hand reached slowly towards Sherlock's throat and Mycroft was so startled that it was his own that he once again froze, hand dropping to slap against his thigh. 

Though, really, it wasn't as if there were anyone else around whose hand it could have been. It was mildly disturbing that his body had acted without his knowledge.

Heart pounding in his ears, Mycroft reached out again.

Before he could make contact, Sherlock twitched; his eyelids fluttered, then opened wide, filled with panic. Sherlock's mouth open and closed, breath hitching, but he seemed unable to make a sound.

Usually, Mycroft would be thrilled with his younger brother's inability to talk, but this was very disturbing.

It was terrifying. 

Crashing to his knees hard enough to jar his teeth – trousers stained, most likely torn beyond repair, but for once he didn't care a wit about his clothing – Mycroft tried to assess what was wrong. 

That Sherlock seemed to be unable to draw a breath was becoming more and more apparent. His chest kept jerking, but no air filled it, no harsh inhales and ragged exhales, no words tumbling out – asking the most bizarre mix of questions, no soft voice wanting Mycroft to help, to fix, to explain. 

Nothing, but tears slowly trickling from the corner of Sherlock's eyes leaving wet tracks down to his temples. 

Though he himself was not injured, Mycroft felt a twisting, ripping pain inside his chest at the sight of Sherlock in such distress. 

It took several long seconds before he could figure out what was wrong. 

“The—” The sound was more of a croak than a word. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft tried again. “The wind has been knocked out of you. You need to try and to exhale.”

In their sockets, Sherlock's eyes were wild, his hand clawed at his throat as if that would somehow help.

Placing his right hand on Sherlock's torso under his ribs, Mycroft pushed softly. 

“You need to breathe out,” he told his brother. “Try breathing out from your stomach.” Mycroft again pushed gently on Sherlock's diaphragm, trying to encourage regular breathing, and was rewarded with a slight exhale. “Good. In.” Grabbing his brother's right hand in his left, Mycroft put both on his own stomach. “Now. Exhale.” He breathed out as he spoke. “Inhale.” A breath in. “Exhale.” A breath out.

Those pale eyes, that everyone had said would turn dark as he aged, that couldn't possibly stay that otherworldly colour, stared into Mycroft's own, filled with fear, pain, but more terrifying: absolute trust.

“My—”

“Don't speak yet, Sherlock. Keep breathing.”

Mycroft wracked his brain to think of what else needed to be done, but he wasn't really one for sports besides fencing and riding. Nothing very rough and tumble that would require knowledge of the best way to help someone with the wind knocked out of them. 

Every breath Sherlock took seemed to be coming more easily, though there was now an odd hitching that Mycroft was sure marked the start of sobs. Under his hand, Mycroft could feel Sherlock's muscles trembling and tensing. 

Something else was wrong. 

Scanning Sherlock from head to food, Mycroft couldn't see any other injuries – no blood seeping out, no torn clothing – but maybe there was something internal. Bleeding. Internal bleeding that needed a hospital right away.

An ambulance. 

“I'm going to get Father,” Mycroft told him. 

“Hurts,” Sherlock got out, his hand turning and grasping Mycroft's painfully. “Hurts.”

“Where? What?” If Sherlock would just let him go, then he could get their father and everything would be fine. 

Which was ridiculous because at twelve, Mycroft knew full well that his parents couldn't fix everything. He was beginning to suspect that they couldn't fix most things as quickly as he could. 

“Leg,” Sherlock whimpered.

While his brother was one to pitch a fit for not getting his way, Sherlock rarely complained about pain. Especially pain he brought on himself.

“Do you want me to look at it or get Father to carry you back to the house?” Mycroft asked. The house wasn't far off, but the nine minute walk might as well have been nine miles if Sherlock needed medical attention. 

Mummy would be beside herself with this incident, but she was in Belgium right now, so that was a problem for Tuesday when she came home.

“Don't leave.” Sherlock gripped his hand tightly enough to have the bones grinding together. For all that Mycroft's hands were bigger, Sherlock's were remarkably strong for one who had not yet reached his fifth year.

“Which leg?” Mycroft asked, wondering what he would do if it was broken.

“My left, but don't touch!” 

“Sherlock, no matter what happens, someone is going to have to take a look. And if you are too injured to walk home, then I'm going to have to get Father to carry you and he'll have to touch you to do that.”

“It's broken,” Sherlock told him.

From the way Sherlock's left foot was angled – and Mycroft berated himself for not noticing sooner – he was certain his younger brother was correct. Still, it would be best to check. 

“May I look?” As he asked the question, Mycroft was already gently pulling up Sherlock's left trouser leg. 

“No, no, no,” Sherlock cried as the fabric moved.

“I need to see.” What difference seeing would make to his brother's state was irrelevant; Mycroft needed all the data he could get.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock moved to stop him, but fell back, sobbing and gagging.

“Be still!” Mycroft ordered him sharply, though he stopped pulling up the trouser leg. It was raised enough for him to see the odd lump in the center of the horrific swelling. 

“Hurts,” Sherlock choked out. “Help.”

“I'm trying,” Mycroft said softly, not knowing how to soothe his brother. Sherlock wasn't one for petting or soft words, nor was Mycroft really one to administer either. 

They stayed still in the late afternoon sun as Sherlock's breathing slowly came back to something resembling normal. 

Letting out a long breath, Sherlock closed his eyes. 

“Don't close your eyes!” Mycroft ordered, suddenly worried about head injuries and comas and little boys who really weren't allowed to climb trees and ended up dead because they couldn't follow that one simple rule.

“Hurts,” Sherlock all but whimpered, tears starting to leak steadily from the corners of his eyes. Sherlock's smaller fingers flexed rhythmically on Mycroft's, as if the repetitive motion would somehow dull the pain. 

“I know,” Mycroft soothed, though he really wasn't sure what to do. 

What if he left Sherlock and someone came along and took Sherlock for help? How would Mycroft find him? What if someone came along and did him more harm? What if Sherlock was suffering from internal injuries and he didn't leave him? What if he did leave, go back home, to get Father, and it turned out that Father was looking for them and no one was around to help?

They, well, Sherlock was five minutes past the allowed time he was given to play after tea time, and it would take Mycroft at least that long to get back home if he ran the whole way.

If he didn't go, it would just be worse for Sherlock in the long run. Getting help was the logical thing to do. Staying back and mollycoddling Sherlock wouldn't help him.

As if sensing his plan, Sherlock grasped Mycroft's hand even tighter.

“Please,” choked out Sherlock. A shiver ran through his body causing an animal-like whimper to come out of his mouth.

That sound twisted Mycroft's stomach so tightly that he worried he might sick-up his tea. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft shifted closer to Sherlock so that his face hovered above his brother's. Little beads of perspiration dotted Sherlock's forehead and his skin took on a ghastly grey-tinged pallour. 

“I'm going to go and get Father,” Mycroft told Sherlock, making sure to keep his voice firm and steady, though it wanted to shake so badly. “I can't carry you back to the house and the longer you stay here the worse it'll be.”

“I can try to walk,” Sherlock said, eyes darting around them. The sun was low on the horizon, shadows stretching out long.

“You're being ridiculous,” Mycroft said brusquely. “You are injured beyond your ability to walk—”

“Maybe I should try,” Sherlock cut in. 

The absolute last thing Mycroft wanted was for Sherlock to move and injure himself even more. 

“No,” Mycroft shot out. “There is no way you'll be able to walk and if you try you might end up doing yourself permanent harm.”

“I don't want to be left alone.”

“Well, you should have thought of that before you went off alone and decided to climb a tree!”

Sherlock shrunk back from him and Mycroft chided himself. His brother was not only younger, but also far more prone to spills and misadventure than he himself had ever been. It probably had something to do with Sherlock's lower intelligence. 

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock said in a small voice. 

“I'm sure you are. And the price you've paid far exceeds any idiocy on your part.”

“I just wanted to see the nest.”

Looking up, Mycroft spotted the clump of twigs and grasses in the top branches of the tree, and it was all he could do not to shake Sherlock for his idiocy of trying to get that high. 

“That was too high for you,” Mycroft scolded. “You're lucky you didn't break your neck.” Images of Sherlock lying still in death under the tree assailed Mycroft in exquisite details. He wondered if he'd ever be able to watch Sherlock climb a tree again.

“It's not my neck that hurts,” Sherlock said, voice almost matter of fact except for the waver. 

It was that little tremor that made Mycroft pull back even as all he wanted to do was hold his baby brother close. 

“I must go get Father.”

“Don't leave me,” Sherlock wailed. 

“You mustn't carry on so, Sherlock.” Mycroft brushed a stray twig out of Sherlock's tangled hair. “You're nearly five and need to stop crying.”

“I'm not crying,” Sherlock objected fiercely, despite the hitching breaths and tears that continued to trickle down his temples and into his hair. 

“I'll be back within ten minutes,” Mycroft promised. If he couldn't find Father, he would leave a note and come right back. Call an ambulance, Mycroft corrected himself, then come back. 

Maybe bring a blanket.

“It'll take you at least six minutes to get back to the house,” Sherlock muttered. “Don't lie to me.”

“I'll be as fast as I can.”

“Just stay,” Sherlock pleaded, sounding so young and scared that Mycroft almost gave in. “Father will come looking for me shortly, I'm sure.”

Mycroft was fairly certain that their father would wait at least fifteen minutes, given Sherlock's track record of staying out later than was allowed, before starting out to search for him. 

“I'll be back shortly.” And with that he stood, ignoring the soft sobs coming from Sherlock as he made his way towards home. 

Never before had Mycroft abandoned his brother, and the first time he did, he left Sherlock hurt and scared. And even though Mycroft knew that it was necessary, it tore at his heart.


End file.
